I fell deeply in love with her, I
standing in a small jewelers shop
in Bangor Wales on a November morning.
In truth, cradling a small silver
Celtic cross in my hands
I knew then that I,
taken that plunge
within moments of our meeting
and recognition was all that remained.

We poets stood around the kitchen
slicing vegetables and words,
laughing at everything and nothing
and occasionally peering out
the small back window
across the yard onto the now
no longer distant sea.

In the sofa in the library
I wrote words that seemed
almost alien to my hand,
pulled by her smile, now
3,300 miles distant, under
the watchful eye
of the large orange tabby
whose gentle claw edited
my hyperbole.

We wrote haiku
walking the ramparts
of Castell Cricieth
on a dank chill morning,
staring down jealously
at the tea house
in the village below.

Lumsden drove out
from London to do a reading,
opted to stay on
a day, laughing as we,
in turn, drew the knives
across the whetsone
prepared the food for

the impatient, smiling cook
and the wine flowed
into the evening meal.

Down by the Afon Dwyfer,
at the end of the path
to his old house,
Sir David listened
from beneath his headstone
and had no arguments
to dissuade me.


On the train back
to Manchester I searched
for the words to tell her
how I felt.
Picking up the phone
words failed me
but she heard my heart
through the silence.



Nature abhors a vacuum
a fact not lost on God, who spent
considerable time filling voids
and creating vessels, pots 
and the odd variety of containers,
some quite will suited to their contents
and others, man as a shining example,
illogical, and worse still, leaky
so that once packed with thought and emotion
it spends years dribbling itself away
until there is only a void,
and abhorred by nature, it collapses on itself.
I cast forth words into my own void,
trying to define its limits, to give it shape,
to circumscribe a piece of abyss, and once
offset, to fill it, to fortify it against
the intense pressures of entropy.
The work of creation is continuous,
practice until you can do it without thinking,
until you can do it devoid of focus,
for then you may master it, and no longer
need to continue, to press on, you will
capture it and pen it, there will be
no need to wrestle with it, it will 
exist in stasis, as it was in the beginning
before the tinkerer came along, as it was
when he rested, with no self-replicating systems
to fill the lapse when time was neither line
nor arrow, but point, jot, without dimension
and without content.


They stole his words,
carefully sidling up to him
when he was distracted,
and plucking one left
hanging from a pocket
or in his room at night
slid one from the dresser.
He never saw them
and never suspected.
They toyed with him,
for a while taking
only verbs, leaving him
transfixed and cursing
his pen, for reasons
neither it nor he could fathom.
One morning, lost
in the first sun of spring,
they took nouns
and his world became
more vague and indefinite.
Now and again, in
moments of boldness
they would take
a phrase, or when
he was particularly vigilant,
merely a letter
that would not
often be missed.
His world grew darker
and his notebooks sat
patiently awaiting his return,
but he had less
and less to say
and covered the window
of his study with an old tarp.
He cried in increasing
silence until he
was caged within his skull,
left to stare at the vacant walls
seeing nothing.